Fat Chance (22 page)

"Oh," he says, and I can hear the disappointment. Relief washes over me, because he clearly did want me to accept the invitation.

"Why don't we see where we are then?" I offer, not wanting to commit, but also not wanting to disappoint him. Reaching out, I lay a hand on his arm, which draws his eyes to mine. "I promise I'll think it over," I say.

"Okay," he says, and takes a deep breath. I'm grateful to him, for letting it go, for not pressing. "You'll think it over?"

"I promise," I answer. "I'd like to go, and be with you, but the way I feel about myself, it still has a hold on me that I can't really escape yet, you know? And I'm afraid of what will happen if things change between us, if things --"

"If something goes wrong?" he asks, giving me the words I couldn't seem to say.

"Yes."

"We're not going to go wrong," he insists, lifting the sandwiches he brought. The rolls may be squished, but they still look edible; he grins and opens the bag, handing one to me. Taking another out for himself, he gestures at me with it before taking a bite and stuffing it into his cheek.

"I'll follow your lead," he mutters. "But I'm not going to turn away, and I'm not going to turn into someone else. This is it, right here, this is me. And I want you to come, and to be with me, and to not be afraid. However long it takes, I'm waiting right here."

"Right here?" I ask.

"Right here," he answers.

"Oh. Okay. Well then, when I leave you here tonight to go home, do you want me to bring you back a blanket?"

I can't believe how much impact Drew has had on my confidence. I know my own personal goals; I know how important it is for me to find my confidence within myself, but I also know that I am a person driven by feedback. I think to some extent, we all are; that's why we get depressed or in some crisis, and we go running into therapy for help. We need better feedback.

I am able, sometimes, to look in the mirror and see through Drew's eyes. I am able to see the eyes he describes as "hot chocolate," instead of always seeing the "mud puddles" that I always saw before. I am able to see my breasts, and while I don't thrill to their size, I am thankful they are firm and round, that in spite of my weight, I have good strong skin. I am able to look at me, sometimes, and see beauty, though it is still rare. Right now, I'm too afraid to be able to see it often.

I'm really thinking of going with him to meet his family, of taking the risk and giving it an honest try.

I've also been thinking of inviting him back home with me some night, and I don't mean back home to Janet's house. So just in case I get brave, I'm standing in a section of Chubby Central that I don't usually go into.

In my left hand, I'm nervously clutching a red silken nightgown with breast cups and wide halter ties made only of sheer lace panels. The waist is elastic, to hold up just below the breasts, and the skirt of the gown is somewhat less sheer, as it is double layered. Just looking at it makes me feel sexy, which is rather odd and maybe a little disturbing. I'm not sure I've ever felt sexy before.

My right arm is draped heavily with other little nighties, but right now, I'm feeling risky, so I put them all back and take the little red number to the cashier.

"Wow, this is a hot one," she laughs. "I bet your man is in for a shock huh?"

"Absolutely," I say, forcing a grin. The moment of courage is over too soon, and before long, I'm walking through the crowded pathways of the mall, heading back to my car in a hurry, before I can head back to the store and return this lingerie.

"Cass!" Someone calls, and because it isn't an everyday name, I turn before I realize what I'm doing.

Crap.

Rick is walking toward me with a Gap bag in his hand and a gleam in his eye; in the effort to steel myself for the encounter, I forget completely where I've been.

"What you got there?" he asks, taking advantage of my shock to snatch the Chubby Central bag out of my hand. He's got it opened before I can stop him, and I know that nothing I say will stop him anyway, so I stand there silent, waiting impatiently.

"Woah, I take it you still have the boyfriend huh? Bet you're getting sick of salad."

"Actually, we eat cake. Every night. He likes it best if I eat a lot and make a big mess, so I actually don't even use silverware anymore; I just shove it in with my hands."

"Right," he mutters, pulling the red lace from the bag to examine it. He looks up at me and I roll my eyes, which irritates him.

"Lot of lace you got here," he says. "Making a pretty skirt for your car, are you?"

"Well, you know, a fat girl has to have her hobbies," I retort, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest and the heat pricking the backs of my eyes.

I will not cry. Not yet. I will not cry.

"Of course," he answers. "What, no cookies? This is the mall, home of good cookies and tasty treats."

"Ate them already," I say, finally reaching forward and taking my bag back. He hands the nightie back to me with a look of distaste, digging his hands into his pockets.

"Red is a nice color," he tells me, as I stuff my purchase back into my shopping bag. "Bright. You'll be the prettiest thousand pound apple he's ever seen." With that last comment, he waves his arm, extending his leg and bowing like an old-world gentleman.

"Well, at least I've moved on from being the county reject, instead of boiling in bitterness like a worthless idiot," I say, glaring at his back. He stiffens; when he turns around, his gaze is so fierce that for a moment, I'm afraid. Taking an involuntary step back, I clench my hand on my shopping bag; it's the only weapon I have handy at the moment.

"Bitterness? You think I'm bitter?" He asks, stepping so close that I can smell the peppers on his breath from whatever he ate for lunch. "I may be bitter, but I can live with being bitter, it's the hand that was dealt to me from the beginning."

He puts a hand on my arm to stop me from turning away. "But you, Cass? Poor delusional Cassaundra, with your little shopping bag from the fat cow store? Can you live with the idea that he'll be disgusted by your body? Can you live with the humiliation of putting yourself on display like a common whore, and having him dismiss you because he can't hide his revulsion?”

Could I? Could I live with that? What if Rick is right, and I invite Drew back to my place, and he comes because he thinks I'm beautiful? But then, what if he sees me, and he just can't take it anymore, and what if he leaves me there, wanting and rejected? What if I'm too bold and he finally sees what Rick is staring down at?

His eyes take on a laughing shimmer, and I know he can see my uncertainty. He knows he's affected me, he's found a soft spot in my armor.

"That's right, Cass, face up to the truth of your life, the way I've faced up to mine. I may be destined to be the bad guy, and the outsider, because I have a past. But you? You're destined to be a big fat girl, an outsider just like me. The trouble is, you didn't even earn it, you're too lazy to establish yourself, too weak to accept your life. But the truth is, this little relationship you think you're in will be over soon enough. Because you're just too big to fit in. Anywhere. For anyone. Ever." He reaches up and lightly taps the end of my nose, then turns smartly on his heels and stalks away.

This time, I have no clever retort, because I believe him. My eyes fill up with tears, and I turn blindly, bumping into a security officer. He catches my arms, and looks me over, then looks into my eyes, concern in his gaze.

"Are you alright, miss?"

"I'm fine," I choke, pushing away from him, fighting tears as I make my way back to my car. My car is a safe zone for me; I throw my bag and my purse into the passenger seat and lock myself in the car. Thankful that I've parked in a corner spot and I'm unlikely to be seen, I finally allow myself to break down.

Eventually, I'm calm enough to be able to speak again, and I pull my cell phone from my purse. Dialing Drew's number, I wait for him to pick up, struggling with the decision I've made, forcing myself to accept the inevitable conclusion. That if I don't break things off, one day soon, Drew will.

"Hey, hon," he says, cheerfully answering the phone.

"Drew?" I whisper, wishing that things were different, that I was thinner, stronger. Wishing that I felt worthy.

"What's the matter?" he asks. "Cass? What's wrong?"

"I can't come to meet your family," I force, as tears slip down my face and my nose begins to run. "And I can't see you anymore."

I can hear him talking to me, still asking questions, but I'm not listening. I close the call, turn the phone off, and tuck it away.

For some reason, I just feel wrong about the whole thing. Drew has called me three times in the week since I broke things off with him, trying to make sense of what I've done, and all I can tell him is that I can't date him, that I don't feel worthy of the attention, that I can't keep waiting for him to turn on me.

I know it's a horribly inadequate explanation for him; he's said as much. He keeps asking what he did wrong, what he should have done differently, what I needed that he wasn't giving. And now, I understand what Renee talked about when she said she wanted someone who will need her. As terrible as I feel for breaking up with Drew, there's a part of me that's glad he didn't just let me walk out of his life.

Still, I can't keep putting off the inevitable, and if I don't send him out of my life, I know I'll eventually have to face him walking out on his own. His last call was a few days ago, and I didn't answer. He left his frustration for me in a voicemail that I can't make myself delete.

"I miss you, Cass," he said to me, quietly. "I want to see you; I want you to take back this break-up. I want you to stop putting Rick on my shoulders. Please, Cass, call me back. I don't even know what happened; I don't understand any of this. Call me back."

I haven't called him back; I'm not going to. At least this way, I can pretend that I broke up with him because I wanted to. I may not be able to tell him the whole truth, but I can admit it to myself; I miss him so much that I actually physically ache with it. It isn't just the dates we'd go on, or his effort to make sure I always had a good time; it's the way he'd listen when I talked, the way he'd always know just how to keep our conversations alive.

I guess I've grown more attached to him than I had realized.

"Hey, earth to Cassaundra," Micah says, waving a hand in front of my face. We've been trying to go over the reports for the last week's call stats, part of my new job with the promotion. He's assigned to train me and I'm due to spend my first day on my own in another week's time. Poor Micah, I know that my work will reflect on him once I'm on my own, and I know I'm trying his patience today, but I just can't seem to focus.

"Yeah, I'm sorry Micah. I don't know what's wrong with me today, I'm just, I don't know, I'm distracted, I guess."

"Everything okay?" He sets the paperwork aside, laying his pen neatly on top of the stack. Leaning back in his chair, he crosses his ankles and props them on the edge of the desk. "Do you need a break?"

"Um, that might be good," I mutter, embarrassed that I'm that obviously distracted. "You sure you don't mind taking lunch a little early?"

"No," he laughs. "I wish they'd give us more breaks anyway. Meet you back here in an hour?"

"Absolutely." I smile as convincingly as possible, and wait while he throws his feet to the floor and stands. He's a charming guy, with pale blonde hair and clear blue eyes, slightly taller than I am and very slender. In all honesty, he'd be cute if he weren't built like a nerd. I like him fine, but he's definitely no Andrew Kingsley. But he's easy to work with, and he's funny when he wants to be. Watching him walk out of my new office, I heave a sigh and turn to the window.